Billy Straight

The boy was smiling, but something was off- the smile required effort.

A handkerchief had flown to Cora Adamson's face. She said, “Perhaps there are things I could've done differently, but I wasn't- How could I know for sure?”

“Know what, Mrs. Adamson?”

“Forgive me, I'm not making sense, let me organize my thoughts… Billy- my Billy- was an only child. Brilliant, he taught himself to read at four. He graduated from Cal law school thirteen years ago, immediately began doing legal work for the Farm Workers Union. My late husband was convinced it was a stage, rebellion, getting back at the corporate world. But I knew better: Billy had always been caring, kind. Even as a small boy, he refused to hurt anything- he wouldn't fish. Bill senior loved to fish, but Billy refused. The day I shot that picture, he and Bill had had a tiff about that. Bill insisted he was going to show Billy how to fish once and for all. Billy cried and insisted he wouldn't get in the boat, refused to kill anything. Finally, Bill told him if he couldn't be a man, just to stay behind with his mother. Which he did. But he was upset- he loved his father. I took the picture to cheer him up.”

Petra stared at the photo. Same eyes, same hair. Same cleft chin. Jesus, even the expression was a clone.

“At twelve he became a vegetarian,” said Cora Adamson. “Again, Bill thought it was a phase, but Billy never touched meat or fish again- I'm wandering, forgive me- where was I- the farm workers. Billy could have gotten a job with any firm in the country, but he chose to travel around the state with the farm workers, looking for violations, living the way they lived. He seemed happy, then suddenly he showed up at home and a

“After that, he started to drift, driving around the state in an old car, growing his hair long, a long beard, doing legal work for various free clinics, never settling down. I knew something was bothering him, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. He wasn't around long enough to tell me. His father was so angry at him… he just kept wandering, leaving me no phone number, no address- I knew he was lost, but he refused to be found.”

Sitting up straighter, she twisted the handkerchief. “Then one weekend he showed up at our place in Arrowhead. We had guests- business associates of his father- and Bill was embarrassed about the way Billy looked. Billy didn't care- it was me he wanted to talk to. He came to my room late at night, brought a candle and lit it. He said it was confession time. Then he told me he'd had an affair with a girl in Delano, one of the migrant girls, a young girl, underage. And she became pregnant. Or claimed to. Billy never saw a child, because he panicked when she told him, being a lawyer. Her age- statutory rape. He was also worried some grower would find out and use it against the union. Instead of shouldering his responsibility, he gave the girl every dollar he had with him and left town. That's when he joined the public defender's office. But it never stopped bothering him, and he began driving around California trying to find her- he said her name was Sharla and that she wasn't sophisticated but she had a good heart. He never found her.

“‘But let's face it, Mom,' he told me. ‘If I'd wanted to badly enough, I would've, right? I'm not sure I want to know- Father's right, I am a coward, spineless, no use to anyone.' I told him the fact that he was telling me now showed he was extremely courageous- he still had a chance to buck up. I promised to do everything I could to help him find the girl, make financial arrangements for the child. If there was one- because I was skeptical, thought the girl was out for money. That infuriated him. He began pounding the bed, shouting that I was just like all the others, everything was money, money, money. Then he blew out the candle and stomped out. I'd never seen him like that and it shocked me. I thought I would let him cool down. The next morning, he was found floating in Lake Arrowhead. They said it was an accident. I never looked for the girl. I was never sure it was true. I did wonder from time to time… and then I saw the picture in the paper. And I knew. And now you've found him, Detective Co

Petra took another look at the photo and handed it back. Too close to be anything but righteous, and the time line was right. William Bradley Adamson. William Bradley Straight.

“What is it you want me to do for you, Mrs. Adamson?”

“Detective, I know I have no right to- maybe legal rights, but morally… but this child. He must be my grandson. There's no other rational explanation. I'm sure we can prove it with genetic tests. But not now, not with all he's been through- I want to… help him.”

Suddenly, she looked down at her lap.

“I don't have the resources I used to have. My husband ran into some… misfortune before he passed away.”

Petra found herself giving a sympathetic nod.

“The truth is,” said Cora Adamson, still averting her eyes, “I've been living off savings for several years, but I know how to budget and I'm by no means pe

A pleading note had entered the woman's voice. Here she was, Chanel suit and all, applying for parental rights. What do you say to that?

Cora Adamson's head rose. “Perhaps it's all for the best. Too much privilege can create its own difficulties.”

Petra wanted to say, I wouldn't know. Instead, she nodded.

“I love children, Detective Co

A thin white hand clutched her sleeve. “What I'm saying is I sincerely believe I have something to offer. I make no excuses for the lack of- Detective Co

The woman's eyes locked onto Petra. Hungry, desperate.

Delaware was flying into town tonight. Why couldn't he be here now?

“Please,” said Cora Adamson.

Petra said, “Let's talk about it.”

82

Yesterday, Dr. Delaware told me about Mom. My stomach caught fire and I wanted to rip the IV line out and punch him in the face.

He sat there looking sad. What right did he have to be sad?

I rolled over and ignored him. No way would I let him see me cry, but the minute he left, I started crying and I went on crying all day and all night. Except when someone came into the room, and then I pretended to sleep.

Sometimes when they thought I was sleeping, they'd discuss me- nurses, interns.

Poor kid.

He's been through so much.

Tough little bugger.

I am not tough. I'm here because what's my choice?

Thinking about Mom made me want to be dead, too, but then I thought, What good would that do? There probably is no God, so I wouldn't get to see her anyway.

That first night I dug my nails into my hands, made them bleed. A little extra pain felt right.

It's the next day and I still can't believe it, I keep thinking she's going to walk through the door. I'll say I'm sorry for ru